


wouldn't you rather be mine?

by orphan_account



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 00:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Seungri has a date and Jiyong is jealous.





	wouldn't you rather be mine?

The television’s on, but Jiyong’s not watching it.

All of the pictures there just seem to shift and blur together, the saturated images of sports stadiums starting to multiply by the thousands, becoming copies of each other, becoming scenes that he doesn’t understand.

And fuck, he doesn’t understand anything, does he?

His mind is reeling now, it’s just floating backwards and away as he tries to wrap his head around what Seungri just said—around the casual as fuck _I’ve got a date tonight_ that just slipped out of his grinning mouth before he disappeared into his bedroom, before he moved out of reach.

He’s always out of reach.

Jiyong sits on the couch, thinking that he should probably be happy or proud at least, because Seungri is his cute dongsaeng and he’s going out on a date and he’s going to have fun, but it’s like—that’s not what Jiyong’s feeling at all right now.

Seungri shuffles around in his bedroom and Jiyong just listens to the sound of him for a moment before shifting on the sofa cushion, turning to face Seungri's door. “What do you mean you’ve got a date?”

Seungri doesn’t answer. He just keeps shuffling around in his room, and Jiyong’s eyebrows furrows as he points the remote towards the television and shuts it off, the living room becoming a blur of shadow and dim light again. He doesn’t even know what to think, honestly. He just props his arm up on the back of the couch and looks towards Seungri's doorway, which is half-open and swimming in shadows.

“I mean I’ve got a date,” Seungri answers finally, his voice floating out of the darkness like smoke.

Jiyong frowns, watching Seungri’s doorway. In the space between the door and the door-frame, he catches pieces of Seungri as he moves around in his bedroom, and the colours of him are all washed out by the moon.

There’s blackness, blueness, whiteness, and then there’s Seungri.

Seungri, who glows orange, who glows yellow and red and gold— Seungri, who glows in colors that are all warm.

And fuck, Jiyong’s such a bloody mess for him. He’s been a mess for him for a long time.

Pushing the thoughts away, he lets his frown deepen. “You mean you’re going out tonight? On a date?”

“I mean exactly what I’m saying, _hyung_.” Seungri answers, but there’s a laugh in his voice, and the sound of it is strained as he hops into a pair of jeans, his jumper only half over his head. There’s a banging noise and a groan and then a moment later, Seungri’s standing in the doorway frowning down at his watch, only for a second, before he’s looking up at Jiyong. “And, yes, tonight—I’m meant to be there in twenty minutes, actually.”

Jiyong blinks, staring at Seungri from the living room sofa. He’s dressed up in dark jeans and one of the fancy beige jumpers that he never wears out, his hair slicked back neatly with gel, and for some reason the sight of him makes Jiyong swallow, for some reason it makes his hands tighten on the back of the sofa like he’s stopping himself from doing something, and he tries not to think too hard about what that might be.

Instead, he says, “I thought we were watching TV tonight.”

Seungri grins, shooting him a look. “I think it can wait, hyung.”

But I can’t, Jiyong wants to say, but he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

He knows that it might come out sounding like the words have been softened around the edges, might come out sounding like something that he doesn’t want it to sound like.

Begging, maybe. Jealousy.

And trust Jiyong when he says that he’s not bloody jealous, because he’s not. Hyungs don’t get jealous when their dongsaengs go out on dates, especially when that dongsaeng happens to be a boy that they’re in a band with. It just doesn’t happen, right?

It’s fucking unheard of.

So he just nods, and he doesn’t say anything else as Seungri walks out of his bedroom doorway, shutting the door behind him before raising his arms up at his sides, “So,” he says, smiling soft. “How is it, then?”

“You look good,” Jiyong says, but the words leave his mouth sounding way too warm against the dimness of the flat, they come out sounding way too gentle with meaning. Seungri blinks, and Jiyong just laughs, shaking his head. “Hair looks a bit like shit, though.”

Seungri grins, eyes crinkling as he pats down the front of his jumper, smoothing out a wrinkle. He shrugs, “I think I’ll take that as a compliment, actually, so thanks.”

Jiyong's mouth turns to a frown as Seungri walks past him, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath his socked feet as he makes his way towards the kitchen.

He doesn’t even turn the light switch on as he grabs his keys from the fruit bowl on the counter, and then he’s moving back into the living room and walking towards the door, shrugging into his coat and slipping into his shoes.

Jiyong sits up a bit more on the sofa, face angled so that he’s looking straight at Seungri. “Hey maknae, don’t go,” he says, and the words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them.

They fall onto the floor with a crash.

They escape out into the room with an echo that’s startling.

Seungri stills, one arm in his jacket as he stares back at Jiyong, dark eyes narrowed in question, in wonder. The gelled bits of his hair shine beneath the dim hallway light, and Jiyong wants to melt into the bloody floor.

Why the fuck does he even bother talking, honestly? What the fuck.

“What do you mean?” Seungri asks, frowning a little.

“Nothing. Sorry.” Jiyong says quickly, but his mouth is all cotton. He can’t even speak normal words anymore, everything ends up sounding like he’s trying not to care too much—which, okay, might be exactly what he’s trying to do, but there’s a difference between him knowing that and Seungri knowing that, and it’s the biggest difference in the world, it really is. “I just—well, I’m about to head back to my place, right? So just, don’t go yet. Because I can walk out with you.”

Seungri shakes his head, shrugging the other arm into his jacket. “No, it’s fine. You can stay here for the night, okay?” He grins, almost sheepish. “I think I’ll want someone to talk to when I get back.”

Jiyong nods, quiet for a moment before saying, “What’s her name, anyway?”

“Her name’s Yerin,” Seungri says, turning to open up the flat door. Outside, the corridor is all dim light and a stretch of dark green carpet, dulled down with night time. Everything seems silent. “She’s very pretty, you should meet her sometime.”

“Definitely,” Jiyong says, but the word has no weight behind it, there’s no excitement at all.

Seungri nods, smiling because he obviously doesn’t notice, and then he’s saying, “well, I’ll see you in a bit, then” before stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind him, leaving Jiyong alone in the empty flat with his thoughts and his bloody shaking hands.

And shit, man—he’s not jealous. He really isn’t.

It’s not like Seungri's his boyfriend or anything, and it’s not even like that’s what Jiyong wants, you know, it’s just that—well, it’s just that sometimes he thinks about it, about kissing Seungri.

About touching him, just touching him, their bodies pressed together beneath a sea of sheets, their bodies swimming. Sometimes he thinks about counting the tiny marks on Seungri's back and making constellations out of them, because that’s what they are, right, they’re constellations.

So, yeah, like he said before, he’s a bloody mess for Seungri.

“Fuck,” Jiyong sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he settles back on the couch, his eyes settling on the fireplace across from where he sits. Orange flames flicker there, snapping and casting dim shadows across the walls of the flat. The wooden table sitting in front of it is all worn out and covered in coffee stains, and Jiyong likes the way it’s so obvious that Seungri’s been living here.

He likes how the green rug on the floor is a bit frayed at the edges, and how there’s a chip in one of the dark wooden floorboards. He likes how the picture frame on the wall beside the kitchen doorway is a little bit crooked, like Seungri was in a rush when he put it up, and he likes how there’s dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

And okay, fuck, he’s jealous.

He keeps thinking about this girl, this faceless Yerin that Seungri’s seeing, and he really just wants to get out of here. He wants to stand up and go outside, drink in the cool air and have a smoke, because it’s bad enough that he wants to kiss his maknae on the mouth, but thinking about it while his band mate’s out on a date with a pretty girl is all kinds of fucked up, you know?

The minutes pass quickly, but to Jiyong they seem so slow.

After twenty minutes of silence, he ends up pulling his phone out of his pocket and then shoving it back in again, because no fucking way is he going to call Seungri. No fucking way in hell.

So instead—seems like he’s always doing things instead—he stands up and makes his way over to the kitchen, the floorboards groaning beneath his socked feet, the floorboards turning into cold tile as he leaves the living room behind him.

He doesn’t bother turning the lights on.

He just pulls out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and brings it over to the open window on the far wall, the one that leads out to the fire escape. Cold air is rushing in, but Jiyong doesn’t mind, he just pulls up the chair and rests his pack of smokes on the sill before pulling a joint out of his pocket and lighting it up.

In the darkness, the tip of it glows.

Jiyong brings it up between his lips and inhales slowly, closing his eyes as the thick sweet smoke fills up his mouth and runs down his throat, as it pools in his lungs, expanding, expanding, expanding.

Fifteen minutes after that, the joint is burnt out and Jiyong’s still sitting at the kitchen window, his eyes on the traffic down on the street below. He thinks he might be high but he’s not sure, as everything is blurring into something else, as the headlights look like little fireflies, if only fireflies were red and white, if only they were green and yellow and red like the traffic lights blinking outside.

Jiyong exhales, and it’s all blue smoke.

Fifteen minutes after that, he’s finished his second joint and the cold air is making him shiver. He’s got his thumbs running over the keypad of his cellphone, because he’s weak, alright, and he can’t fucking help it.

He just keeps thinking about it, about whether or not the pretty girl’s down on her knees yet, about whether or not she’s looking at Seungri from across some restaurant table with a shit-eating grin on her face like yes, I’m pretty, I’m so pretty, aren’t I? Do you want to come here and touch me, do you want to come here and see just how pretty I can be? And Seungri’s probably eating it up, because that’s totally like him, it’s exactly the kind of thing he would do.

So, Jiyong might be a little bit high.

The kitchen is becoming a kaleidoscope of dim shadows and traffic sounds, the moonlight washing in and casting squares of silver light over the kitchen tiles. Everything is blurring and shifting and the kitchen seems big, big, bigger, than, it was, before. Jiyong’s still got his phone in his hand, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s dialed Seungri’s number until there’s the muffled sound of restaurant chatter and a low voice in his ear saying, “Yes, hello?”

Leave it to Seungri to pick up his phone when he’s in the middle of a bloody date. That boy will never learn.

Something about it seems funny, though, and a laugh bubbles up in Jiyong’s throat as he scrubs one finger over his eyebrow, sighing loudly.

“Hyung-nim, is that you? Yerin’s in the bathroom, what’s up?” Seungri says, and his voice swims with concern now on the other side of the line, blurred up by the sound of clinking silverware. When Jiyong stays quiet, Seungri says, “Hey, you alright?”

No, you fuck, I want to touch you. Jiyong thinks, because it’s like he’s incapable of thinking anything else, can’t think anything other than, No, you fuck, I’m really fucking jealous right now.

It’s quiet for a moment on the other end and Jiyong thinks that he should probably say something, but the blue smoke is getting to his head, right, it’s fucking him up and he doesn’t know how to speak. He’s about to say something like, sorry, wrong number, but then Seungri's voice is shattering the silence and he’s saying: “I don’t—I don’t understand, hyung, why are you jealous?”

Jiyong blinks, and he almost laughs because, fuck, he said that out loud, didn’t he? He’s wondering if he said the first part, and he wonders if it even matters.

“I’m not,” Jiyong says, but he’s sort of grinning, he’s sort of mucking around. It’s like his head is floating up and around and away, leaving him with alone in an empty kitchen with all of Seungri’s things, and there’s Seungri’s steady breathing in his ear, close enough to be the real thing. Jiyong’s smile grows, his eyes crinkling. “Alright, I might be a little bit jealous, but. It’s because I smoked, right? It’s gotten to my head a bit, I think.”

“Jiyong hyung, what are you—”

“Don’t go home with her, okay?” Jiyong says, his eyebrows furrowing as he watches the traffic outside the window. “I mean, like, because I don’t really want her touching you, I don’t think.”

Seungri makes a small sound on the other end, and Jiyong thinks maybe he should just hang up now, maybe he should just shut the fuck up and go to sleep. But he can’t, not now, not when Seungri’s out on a date with a pretty girl and Jiyong’s just sitting here thinking about him—about his mouth, his body, the way their hands would look together, the contrast of them.

“Hyung,” Seungri says, and it almost sounds like a warning.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Jiyong asks, and yeah, he must’ve done more than two joints because he’s saying all this shit without even meaning to, without even wanting to. It’s just spilling out of him, stretching across the emptiness, across the phone line. “I mean, because sometimes I think about it.”

“Think about what?” Seungri asks, and Jiyong can’t read the emotion in his voice at all.

He clenches and unclenches his fist on his thigh, resting his forehead against the cold frame of the window. “I don’t know. Kissing you, mostly,” he says, “I’d let you pull my hair and, um—”

“And what, hyung?”

“And, I want to fuck you,” Jiyong says, the sound of it almost getting stuck in his throat. He huffs out a laugh, trailing his finger over the grainy wooden sill of the window. “Yeah, I think I’d like that. I could suck you off, too.”

Seungri inhales sharply. “Fuck, hyung, you can’t just—”

“I think about it,” Jiyong repeats, watching as the street traffic below blurs together into nothing but color and sound, spinning around and around and around. He sighs, the taste of weed still thick in his mouth. “I think about it a lot, Ri, alright, so just. I just don’t want her to touch you.”

“She’s not going to touch me,” Seungri says, and there’s something in his voice now, but Jiyong doesn’t let himself think about that. He just listens to the sound of Seungri's breathing for a moment until Seungri’s saying, “Hey, um, she’s just left the bathroom, so—”

“Right,” Jiyong nods, “okay, I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, um. Goodbye, hyung,” Seungri says, and then he’s gone.

He’s gone, and all that’s left is the steady static of the dial-tone, the squares of moonlight washing over the kitchen tile, and Jiyong’s hands that won’t, stop, shaking.

“Shit,” he breathes, running a hand down his face before standing up, leaving his smokes on the window sill with his coffee from this morning and just stumbles back towards the living room, the tiles becoming wood again, the wood becoming carpet as he reaches the sofa and falls down onto it with a sigh.

He shifts around so that the back of his head is resting on the arm of the couch, both of his feet reaching the other end of the sofa, and then he rests his arm over his eyes, blocking out the room, trying to make everything slow down.

He’s said it twice before and he’ll say it again:

He’s a fucking mess for Seungri.

Sighing, Jiyong just lays there on the sofa, and his whole body feels like a dead weight, the smoke buzzing through his veins and making all of his thoughts and reactions happen slow, so slow. He rubs at the backs of his eyelids in a way that makes constellations spin there, the darkness exploding into a galaxy of color and light.

He’s not sure how much time passes.

He just listens to the sound of the clock ticking from the kitchen, the sound of it filling up the empty flat, and then a while later he’s hearing the flat door open up, followed by shoes being kicked off and then footsteps coming closer and closer, stopping.

“Hyung?” Someone says, and Jiyong blinks his eyes open to see Seungri standing there, right there, in the space between the coffee table and the couch. He’s watching Jiyong with an unreadable sort of look in his eyes, the meaning lost in the shadows, and then he’s shifting, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Jiyong mumbles, eyebrows furrowing as he glances up at Seungri.

Seungri just looks at him, and then he’s moving in a bit closer, close enough that he’s standing right in front of Jiyong, so close that Jiyong can feel the warmth of his body from where he lays on the couch—he can feel the warm glow of him, all orange and yellow and red.

After a moment of silence, Seungri says, “Do you really think about it?”

Jiyong blinks, and there’s some sort of arousal stirring in his stomach and his fingertips when he swallows and says, “All the time, yes.”

Seungri keeps watching him, and then he’s leaning down a bit and spreading Jiyong’s legs apart on the sofa, settling down in the space between them—like this, their chests are pressed together and Jiyong’s feet are hooked around the bottom of Seungri’s calves, and it’s just closeness, it’s all closeness.

Seungri’s face is hovering over him, and Jiyong has to keep blinking for everything to stay in focus, to keep the details of his face sharp even in the dimness—there’s the pink of his mouth, those round eyes and the soft slope of his nose, the birthmark on his neck that Jiyong really just wants to kiss, to memorize the shape of.

“I’ve thought about it too.” Seungri says slowly, and then all of a sudden he’s leaning in, his mouth brushing over Jiyong’s in a way that makes Jiyong’s eyes fall shut again, in a way that makes the room melt away until there’s nothing but Seungri and the swimming sounds of their heartbeats. “About kissing you,” he says, his words falling into Jiyong’s throat as he kisses over Jiyong’s neck, “About you fucking me,” he huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he comes back up, trailing kisses down the line of Jiyong’s jaw. “I never thought I was allowed to think those things about you.”

"Why?” Jiyong asks, swallowing thickly.

All of his thoughts are spinning and falling away from him now—dropping down into the space between the sofa cushions, and scattering beneath the couch, collecting dust.

“Just - I never thought that you could - yeah, that you too,” Seungri says, and then his lips are on Jiyong’s again and Jiyong’s kissing him rough, his hands tangling in Seungri's hair, pulling gently.

He’s hard in his sweatpants now, and Seungri’s thigh keeps moving over his crotch, pressing down and making friction, and fuck if it’s not the best feeling in the world.

“Then let's do it,” Jiyong says, breathing heavy. “Let me fuck you, Ri. Come on.”

Seungri huffs out a laugh, and then he’s pressing his forehead against Jiyong’s, their noses touching. “Are you high, hyung?”

Jiyong thinks about that for a moment, and then he grins, keeping his eyes on Seungri’s. “I might be.”

“You might be.” Seungri repeats, but he’s smiling.

Jiyong nods, and then he says, “I’ll still want to suck you off tomorrow morning, if that’s what you mean. I can do that right now, if you want.”

“Okay,” Seungri breathes, and his whole body seems to still as he watches Jiyong’s mouth, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” Jiyong grins, and then he’s kissing Seungri again, once, twice, and then licking over his bottom lip, pulling it in between his teeth, just tasting. “Sit down, okay?”

Seungri nods, breaking away from the kiss.

His eyes are dark now, but in the morning, Jiyong thinks they’ll look like honey.

He grins, standing up and trading places with Seungri, both of them shuffling around until Seungri’s sitting on the edge of the sofa with his feet on the floor, and Jiyong’s kneeling down between his legs, his hands fumbling with the button on Seungri’s jeans.

“Here,” Seungri says, but he’s smiling as he stands up and shoves the pants down his legs, stepping out of each leg one at a time before tossing the jeans off to the side. He’s hard in his boxers, and Jiyong swallows, leaning in and mouthing over his erection, slow, like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Seungri makes a noise at the back of his throat, and it might just be the hottest bloody thing Jiyong’s ever heard in his life. He pulls at the waistband of Seungri’s boxers, tugging until they’re off too, until Seungri’s just wearing his jumper and nothing else.

The sounds of traffic float in through the open kitchen window, and the whole room feels cool, and Jiyong thinks he would be freezing if it weren’t for Seungri’s hand at the back of his neck, gentle and warm.

“You’re the sweetest thing, you know that?” Jiyong asks, gently taking hold of Seungri’s cock, stroking, thumbing over the head. Seungri’s hips are jerking slightly, and Jiyong blinks, moving in so that his lips are brushing over Seungri's dick, just barely. His words are a whisper. “Did she tell you how sweet you are, Ri?”

Seungri swallows, his hands tangling in Jiyong’s hair. “No, she didn’t.”

Jiyong grins, blinking up at him. “She should’ve,” he says, and then his mouth is around Seungri’s cock, tongue licking out to trail along the shaft. Seungri keeps moaning, breathy little sounds that seem loud against the quietness of the flat, little sounds that make arousal buzz in Jiyong’s veins, electric.

He breaks away, licking his lips and pushing Seungri back onto the couch. 

Jiyong grins slowly, wrapping his fingers around the backs of Seungri’s thighs and kissing along the insides of them, licking and bruising and marking in a way that he can only hope feels good. Seungri’s breathing heavy though, and Jiyong thinks that he might be too, but he can’t really tell with his heart beating in his ears like that, making all of his thoughts sound like yeah, fuck, yeah. And Seungri tastes like strawberry soap and honey, and Jiyong’s not surprised at all because he’s Seungri, and of course that’s how he’d fucking taste, like strawberries and honey and everything sweet.

Jiyong breathes in through his nose, eyelashes fluttering as he swallows, and as he keeps his eyes on Seungri, who is staring right back.

And yeah, Jiyong’s a mess. He’s a fucking mess and he knows it.

Breaking away, he licks at his hand before fisting it around Seungri’s cock again, stroking and kissing at the insides of his thighs, trying to be gentle. Something about Seungri reminds him of innocence, and he loves that. He smiles, sucking and licking slowly, and it’s not long before Seungri’s coming into his mouth, his whole body racking with tremors as Jiyong swallows him down, tasting the thick saltiness of him on his tongue.

“Sorry,” Seungri says immediately, his words worn out as Jiyong licks around his shaft, carrying him through it. “I suppose I should’ve warned you.”

“It’s all fine, maknae.” Jiyong laughs, his eyes crinkling as he looks up at Seungri. He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s quite cute, though, that you think I need a warning.”

Seungri looks at him for a moment, mouth quirked up in amusement, and then he’s laughing as Jiyong starts kissing up his stomach, over his happy trail and then higher, over his chest, his collarbones, over his shoulder and his throat.

“Come here,” Seungri says, his hands still in Jiyong’s hair.

Jiyong grins, pushing himself up until his lips are on Seungri’s again, until they’re both laying back on the couch with Jiyong tucked between Seungri's legs, so close that they could be the same person.

Seungri breaks away from the kiss, licking his lips before swallowing. “You’re still— you could do me now, if you want.”

“Tomorrow,” Jiyong says, shuffling up a bit and resting his forehead against Seungri’s throat. Yawning, he lets his eyes fall shut as he listens to the steady in and out of Seungri’s breathing. When the room gets quiet and there’s only the sounds of traffic floating in from outside, Jiyong speaks his words into Seungri’s skin. “As many times as I want, okay?”

Seungri laughs at that, and Jiyong thinks that means okay.

**Author's Note:**

> There you go, another one! I'd rather write a long, multi-chaptered angsty one, but I'm notorious for not finishing those ... so I guess this is better. Let me know what y'all think :D


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